Charles Taylor: Show of Force

I should spend more time worrying about Alex and his forces. The Russians have never gathered a strike force like this before. It is the first time they've shown that they are more than an antisubmarine navy. They are going on the attack, and Alex Kupinsky is one of the most brilliant officers I have ever known. And the Russians have followed so much of the organization of the German General Staff. I don't think they have ever had the combined brilliance of that staff, especially the one with which Hitler started the war, because the Soviets have always believed finally in sheer quantity when all else seems to have failed. No one can produce cannon fodder like the; Russians. But with all the educating they have done in the very fine schools Alex has told me about, I really believe that deep down they will always be suspicious of delegating responsibility and that their lesser commanders will not be able to operate on their own. It's the same story of centralization of authority that has been the key to power in the Kremlin for so long. I'll bet Alex is following Gorenko's orders, just as they were worked out in the Kremlin, and that he'll feel me out a bit first and then come charging right across the Indian Ocean like they've been charging across open fields for centuries. They've always been able to drive out invading armies either by sheer numbers of troops or the ability to hold out until winter. No one but Russians can survive a war during the Russian winter.

But I don't think, even with all their schools, and Alex's abilities.

that they understand winning in the open ocean. That's where America has a tradition and Alex has learned that lesson more than once. I'm going to read more about the General Staff, though. Perhaps there's something I haven't seen yet.

I'll stop here. I'm rambling. Too many loose thoughts, but perhaps I've come across something and just don't know it yet. I'll read this over in an hour or so.

MY DEAREST DAVID,

I think that tonight I miss you more than I ever have before. It's because Sam and Ann Carter came for dinner tonight. They're such close friends and they mean so much to me when you're away, but tonight she was quiet, always changing the subject whenever we talked about you and where you might be. And Sam was very, very quiet, and you know how he's the life of the party whenever he's had two drinks.

Maybe that's the first thing that began to scare me. He nursed one drink all night, and spent most of the time just listening to our small talk. And whenever I'd talk about you, he wouldn't look me in the eye. I even asked once if you were all right, and then he did say that yes, absolutely, you were fine. Then he got a call and had to go back to the Pentagon at ten o'clock at night. They seemed almost relieved when they left.

Before writing this letter, I went in to check on the kids. Your daughter always bleeps like a Iamb, and young Sam had just fallen asleep. He was out with his friends for a while. And that's the other strange thing. You know how Sam Carter just dotes on our son because he hasn't any children of his own. Well, tonight, he didn't have much to say to him at all. He didn't ask him about school or sports, or if he still wanted to go to the Academy, or any of the things they kid each other about. And when young Sam left the house this evening, Sam wept over to him and put one hand on his shoulder and squeezed it and shook hands with him, something he's never done before. It was almost like he was taking your place and saying, "Now you're grown up, son."

I don't want to sound negative or act like a hysterical wife, but I know now you're in some kind of danger. And just before I sat down to write this, Bobbie Collier called to ask if I'd heard from you at all. It seems that Bob has pretty free use of the phone at the Moscow embassy since she's been back in Washington to visit, but he hasn't called for the last few days. She said she called Sam to see if he had heard anything, and he just told her that Bob might not be calling as regularly for the next couple of days, but not to worry or say anything to anyone else. The only other person she thought she could call was me, and I told her how strange Sam and Ann were tonight.

So I think you can understand why I'm concerned. I was almost going to remind Sam of what he told me when he stood up for you at our wedding — that he'd make sure to keep you out of trouble after what you got yourself into in Vietnam, because he knew how bitter I was then about the Navy after my first husband-was shot down. But then I decided that might give him the wrong idea. I know that now you're an admiral and running your own task force, you may always be near danger. I also know that something is happening out there and I wish you were here with me, loving me and watching the kids grow up. Young Sam really needs his father around, too. He's into those years when boys are becoming men, and you told me how confusing they were, and what your father meant to you. Well, Sam's right there now, and there are things you can do for him and say to him that I can't. So please take care of yourself, my love. There's three of us here that love you and need you very much. And, just in case you've been at sea so long and might have forgotten, it's getting cool at night now and I need someone to warm me up.

There's so much more I want to say to you, but I think it's better if I write again after I've had time to sort things out. I'm sure everything will turn out well and you'll be back with us soon.

With all the love you can handle, Maria

The nest of dirty gray destroyers, four abreast, were starkly outlined against the brackish water of Hampton Roads and the gray Saturday-morning skies. They were offset even more by their larger, more modern counterparts two piers down, high-bowed frigates and guided-missile destroyers. David Charles had been here before, as a midshipman, and he knew the destroyer/ submarine piers of Norfolk well. This time he was back with one gold stripe on each of his shoulder boards, ensign's stripes, and with orders for sea duty in his pocket.

The U.S.S. Bagley was an old ship in the summer of 1961, of World War II vintage, and she owned campaign stripes from more Pacific battles than Washington admirals cared to acknowledge for their aging fleet. A stray Jap five-hundred-pounder had destroyed her after engine room at Leyte Gulf, but they had. patched her up and she had even been back to Korea after a few years in mothballs. The constant attention of tenders kept the Bagley and the other seven ships of heir squadron in decent enough shape so they could survive the weeks of duty in the Atlantic with Task Group Alpha. Right now, she looked more like she'd been steaming underwater than on the surface.

Ensign Charles looked her over critically from the foot of the pier. The second ship in the nest, her dented hull with the chipped numbers on the bow pleading for redlead and paint, the Bagley would be alongside the pier the next two weeks for some much-needed upkeep. He had been waiting in the bachelor officer's quarters for ten days for his ship to return so he could report aboard. Usually, when the squadron was at sea with one of the carriers, they flew new personnel out with the mail and they then reported aboard their ship swinging from the end of a helicopter cable. But this time the weather was so bad that the personnel officer in Norfolk had found another one-week school for him to attend. And then, the day before the squadron was due to arrive, David had gotten a message from the Bagley's executive officer requesting him not to report aboard until that Saturday morning.

He picked up the two suitcases, one an extra-heavy foldover type with all his uniforms, and strolled erectly to the edge of the pier to look down into the water. There was a hiss from the steam hoses connected to the pier. The tide was low and just beginning to change, and with no current the scum of oil and garbage and sewage lapped gently against the tired old hulls. The smell was as he always remembered, the stink of the piers in any port in the world — not the rich, heady, salt perfume of the open ocean. The bags were becoming heavier now, and he turned up the pier toward the brow going over to the first ship, another Pacific veteran. He lurried sideways as he inched down the narrow gangway to the quarterdeck with his bulky luggage. A disinterested first-class petty officer looked up, but without taking his elbow from the desk attached to the bulkhead.